Confrontation
by Arallion
Summary: Those who do not learn from history... A look at one potential encounter, past the current timeline of WoW. TxJ undercurrent, a bit. Oneshot, drabble.


_**Disclaimer:** Warcraft, World of Warcraft and the characters and places therein are all property of Blizzard Entertainment. No profit is made from the usage of these characters in this story._

**Confrontation**

Jaina's horse shied as a flight of arrows streaked overhead, buzzing like a cloud of angry bees. She absently calmed it, eyes scanning the chaos of fighting bodies stretching down the gentle hill, ignoring the concerned glances of her second-in-command and the guards that surrounded her position. She was looking for someone.

_How could you?_

The sky overhead was threatening; heavy gray clouds that roiled in a wind the plains below could hardly feel. Despite their looming, dark appearance, no rain fell. The air was oppressive, expectant of some kind of resolution that was not forthcoming.

_Did the truce mean nothing to you?_

Her horse shifted uneasily again, the white ears swiveling nervously as the breeze carried sounds up off the battlefield. The din was eerily muffled, as if she were hearing it through a wad of cotton. Jaina shook her head sharply, trying to clear the uncomfortable sensation, but it remained.

_How could you betray us?_

A sharp gust lifted her hood and blew it back off of her head, tearing wisps of her bright hair free of its careful braid. She raised a hand to grasp the heavy purple mageweave, awkwardly trying to pull it back up one-handed, not trusting the excited horse enough to release the reins and use both hands.

Out in the battlefield, a familiar standard unfurled, the black emblem on a blood-red field, billowing wide in a wind that she didn't at the moment feel. It streamed from the head of a phalanx of Horde cavalry, which meant of course wolves, kodo and raptors rather than horses, rams and great cats.

Jaina's hand stilled on the plush, pebbled material, her eyes fixed despite herself on the howl-of-fury-made-visible that rippled out like a bloodstain on the grass. It was carried by the largest orc she had ever seen, perhaps the largest any would ever see, riding a great wolf, hefting a massive warhammer that sparked with lightning as it punched easily through the foes that threw themselves senselessly in his path.

Of course _he_ would carry the standard himself, she thought, bitterly. Bitterness was an emotion she was growing rather accustomed to, of late.

She was never allowed to carry a standard – not that she would have been able to manage both it and her staff and the magical casting that she must do. But there was another reason for it – the standard _did_ serve as a focus of attention. Even now, as she watched, entire groups of Alliance soldiers rose to the challenge – and were left, crushed and broken, in its wake.

Unbidden, memories seared behind her eyelids – a vision of this selfsame orc, limping away from the battlefield where his mentor, Grom Hellscream, had redeemed his honor and slain the demon Mannoroth; a shocked moment of weightlessness as those massive dun-green arms had plucked her from the clutches of the Scourge as the humans' base had fallen in their defense the World Tree, settling her carefully in front of him on the wolf as he pulled the tattered remnants of her army to the relative safety of the Horde encampment. A stunned pause as they stared at each other in silence on a distant plateau near the orcish town of Razor Hill; she had believed she saw sorrow and understanding in those unusual blue eyes, and even now she could not find another interpretation of his expression.

Jaina found herself blinking fiercely and a cry of anguish strangled itself in her throat before it could alarm her escort. Instead, she clenched her fist tightly around her staff, knuckles whitening under the strain.

_How could you betray _me?

The sun was setting, and a streak of red-golden light razed the battlefield, shining in her still-uncovered hair, painting the white horse a fiery orange atop their slight hill. And below her, the searching phalanx stopped, as she literally felt his gaze focus on her, exposed by the vagaries of weather.

And it felt… sorrowful.

_How _dare _you?_

Fury and grief exploded in her mind, the sensation of betrayal clamping around her heart like a heavy hand; it hurt, it was not something that could be borne without taking action. The horse reared, bugling shrilly in response to her change in demeanor, and it took barely a thought to send it leaping forward, shouldering through the startled and dismayed guards to charge recklessly down the hill at the green-skinned adversary who stared up at her with dark, accusing eyes. Scores of fighters scrambled hastily out of the way as her rage boiled over in a sheet of white lightning lashing from her outstretched hands.

The cavalry dodged, retreating slightly, but her target remained still, merely raising his shield to allow the poorly-directed spell to splatter harmlessly off its curved surface. The wolf beneath him snarled in warning, and her horse slowed abruptly, not quite so far gone into a berserker rage that it was completely without ideas of self-preservation. She, however, was not in a mood to be slowed, or stayed, or reasoned with, and she kicked the horse sharply, sending it bolting forward again in alarm as she readied another spell.

Then she was lurching forward, cracking her chin painfully on the pommel of her saddle as the horse dropped to its knees, the earth heaving violently around its feet. She threw herself to the side before the thrashing beast could roll on her legs, shaking her head to clear it. Clambering to her feet, she saw the orc staring at her, grim-faced. As her horse struggled to its feet and staggered away without her, he made no move to attack; instead, he also dismounted and the wolf retreated from them with a soft, unhappy whine.

"How did it come to this?"

The deep voice, ragged from battle-smoke and overuse, echoed Jaina's pained thoughts precisely. He sounded almost as betrayed and confused as she felt, and her eyes narrowed with renewed fury.

"You tell _me_, Warchief," she spat. The blizzard she called, nearly without thought, was so dense as to completely obscure his form. Yet when it dissipated he still stood there unharmed, flicking a chunk of ice from his glove, a shimmer fading in the air around him.

"We did _nothing_ to your people, yet our villages have been razed by your forces." The tone was now cool and distant. She knew that tone; she'd once joked with him that it was like the Southfury River itself, smooth and peaceful on the surface, yet with deadly undertows lurking beneath. And then there were the crocolisks...

"What do you mean, you did _nothing_?" The events were raw and painful in her conscious mind, and she detailed them in a cutting tone, hoping to draw blood, noting with satisfaction the infinitesimal shift in his expression as she spoke. "Hundreds of unsuspecting farmers, merchants, travelers who were completely innocent, slaughtered for no reason that we could determine except to perhaps deliver a warning that we are no longer welcome here! Need I remind you that we helped this land to survive _together_, Warchief?"

The huge orc stared at her, his expression stoic but thoughtful. "You need not, Miss Proudmoore," he replied, and she flinched at the familiar polite address. "Yet I feel that you already knew that. And you should also know that I would never have authorized such attacks on your people."

She pounded her staff into the ground angrily, shaking her head. "I don't believe that anymore! I can't! What happened – it couldn't have been anything else. I have no reason to doubt."

The Warchief stiffened at her words, and then appeared to sigh heavily, the armor shifting with a rattle. "I think I begin to see. And you did not contact me directly about these attacks, as I thought you would have. Is it true that you have no reason to doubt – or is it more the case that you have no will to question?"

Jaina opened her mouth, and then stopped, stunned, as the smoldering rage that had been feeding on her insides seemed to burn itself away in ashen flakes, leaving her cold and empty. She stared across the space at the massive orc chieftain, seeing her pain and remorse echoed in his blue eyes.

_We were used…_

He shook his head, as if denying her sudden acceptance. "I was as much to blame, Miss Proudmoore, if not more – I should have seen this coming. Apparently I have not learned from history as much as I would have liked."

"No… Demon control? It can't be…" Jaina shuddered violently as the cold realization washed over her, the feeling that he was absolutely correct. And she hadn't even thought twice about the actions taken – as if something had completely overridden her common sense.

"Unfortunately, it does appear so. And I have a feeling that I know the creature responsible. Yet, for all her machinations, she did not count on the possibility that you and I might actually try to reason with each other on the battlefield." His smile was faint, and feral, and for once, Jaina wished she had sharp teeth so as to echo it more effectively.

"I almost did not," she admitted softly, looking around at the fighting nearby. "We must stop this – we need to stop the fighting until we determine what actually happened."

"Agreed," Thrall responded, his tone weary. "And – Jaina! Look out!"

One moment she was upright, then her head was spinning and she was spitting out bloody dirt and grass, the skidding impact partially cushioned by the orc's chest and protective arms. Twisting around in panic, she looked to find herself several meters away from where she had been standing. A bubbling morass of Scourgefire, or at least what looked to be Scourgefire, was steadily spreading black decay into the green plain. She looked back to see Thrall's grim expression as he sat up.

"Since I "invited the snake into the henhouse", so to speak… I shall deal with her," he growled. "It seems that she has an interest in keeping us from speaking further."

There was only one other "she" that Jaina could think of, and the idea didn't surprise her overly much. Sylvanas Windrunner, the banshee leader of the Forsaken, had made an alliance with a demon, Varimathras. He was known to be cowardly and easily manipulated – but he was a demon. She'd made the arguments to Thrall before; what if that were just an act?

But she had never wanted to be proven wrong so much in her life. It hurt now, to know that Thrall's trust had once more been betrayed. It was only a little less painful to know that it hadn't been her fault.

"The Forsaken, then – are they our enemies?" She had to ask.

"Yes." He hesitated briefly, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "You might wish to try and keep your people from killing mine until the majority of the Forsaken are gone – it seems that the Apothecary Society has more difficulty raising orcs and Tauren from the dead than they do humans and trolls."

In shock, she did not notice that her jaw had dropped open, or the dumbfounded, stricken expression on her face that exactly mirrored her thoughts, until a strong, dun-green finger lifted her chin and closed her mouth for her. It lingered just a moment, before he shifted to get to his feet again. Jaina, wide-eyed, angry for an entirely different reason now, grabbed his arm with as much force as she could muster; this wasn't much, but it stopped him nevertheless, faded blue eyes turning to her in mute question.

"You are not going to do this now? I need to explain to my people what's going on."

"We are in danger until this is handled, Miss Proudmoore," the orc sighed. "She attacked you right in front of me. She knows that we're aware of the situation – she's not likely to wait while we explain it to everyone else, is she?"

Jaina's hand on his arm was suddenly nerveless and limp, but he made no move to pull away, caught in her gaze. "Fine, but I'm not going to be responsible for another misguided war between our people. Those who don't listen to me in the next few minutes are going to regret it for the rest of their lives. And you – you will stay safe, or the same will apply."

His lips twitched in wry amusement. "I'll take your concern under advisement, Miss Proudmoore."

She stared at him urgently, the need to say something more warring with fears that rose up in her throat and choked off the words. "Damn," she managed, almost gagging, but at least now the wall was broken. "Thrall, I can't believe this could have happened…"

"Do not blame yourself," his voice rumbled, and there was a shadow in his eyes. "We must simply deal with what has been wrought, and become stronger because of it."

"As the orcs did," she murmured, almost involuntarily as the understanding settled in, cold and heavy and horribly _real_; she'd always _thought_ she understood but this was something else entirely. To have actually experienced the realization that someone else had been rummaging around in her mind, influencing her actions and by that controlling the lives of an entire nation….

A drop of rain fell with a plop onto her hand. Another drop landed on the orc's scarred, black lacquered bracer, trembling there for a moment before losing the battle with gravity and slipping down the curved metal to fall to the grass.

Jaina looked up from where her hand rested and caught him staring at her once more, his expression a strange mixture of regret and pride. And there was something else, intense and unnamed, hanging in the air like ball lightning, raising gooseflesh on her skin until he glanced – perhaps a little uneasily – away. The rain began to fall in earnest. At least it would help dilute the Scourgefire.

"If I could have spared you the knowledge…" he started, then trailed off, discarding the comment as the useless thought it was. Then, more briskly, "Here is your horse, Miss Proudmoore." His wolf had apparently chased down her aimlessly wandering mount, grabbed the loose reins in its teeth and tugged the beast out of harm's way, into their small circle of calm.

It suddenly felt to Jaina as if they were both in the eye of a vicious storm – but neither of them could afford to let this storm play itself out.

With this concession the sounds of battle swirled into her consciousness again, over the uncaring susurration of the rain. Gathering her strength, she thought of all the people whom she'd led into this battle for what were now clearly all the wrong reasons. And she was beginning to realize why it had worked so well, too. As the orc's hands went to her waist to lift her into the muddy white horse's saddle, she set her jaw and looked at him squarely.

"Don't die," she said, a fierce glint in her eye.

"Don't give me reason to," he replied sharply, and then looked surprised, as if the response had been startled out of him. In a gentler tone, he continued. "Be safe, Miss Proudmoore. Ancestors willing, we will all survive this together."

Jaina watched as he turned to mount his wolf, and then nudged her horse into motion, casting a spell as it clambered back up the slippery hillside. A wide streak of light flared blindingly about the tip of her staff, the afterimage streaming behind like a blue-white banner. She _would_ carry her own standard in this battle, and none of them would be used as pawns in this game any longer.

_Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it._ They had learned, but not quite enough. It seemed the lessons would continue.


End file.
